


Crosses and Crossings

by Autumn Mage (EllieCoral)



Category: Father Ted
Genre: Adventure, Amnesia, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Eventual Romance, F/M, Father Figures, Friendship, Gen, Pagan Gods, Post-Canon, Roman Catholicism, Suicide Attempt, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27799333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieCoral/pseuds/Autumn%20Mage
Summary: Demoralized by his failure to escape Craggy Island, the last thing Father Ted Crilly needs is to carry out an impossible order from Bishop Brennan. But what starts out as a mission to talk sense into neopagans leads to the gig of a lifetime... as the herald of the returning Celtic gods.
Relationships: Dougal McGuire/Original Female Character(s), Ted Crilly/Original Female Character(s), Ted Crilly/Polly Clarke
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. The Young Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young man accepts his fate after a frightening ordeal.

Searing white light pierced the young man’s eyes as he stumbled out of the cave. His head swirling, he halted, inches away from where an incline steepened into a deadly tumble. 

Blinking against the sunlight, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He was in the air—how high up, he could not judge. He was on a mountain—where, he could not tell. Below him stood a patchwork of fields interrupted by small forests. A modern road cut through the land, running left to right, hopelessly empty of cars—and help. 

As the murk in his mind dissipated, he noticed his right hand gripping something. He brought it up to his face. It was a silver branch with three golden apples, about the length of his arm, and lighter than any paper. 

He blinked at it. He distantly wondered if the apples were safe to eat. His stomach, churning from the height and the mystery of his whereabouts, convinced him otherwise. 

Beautiful though the branch was, he could not find any use for it. As if compelled, he set it down on a grassy bump. He forgot all about it and set about getting down from the mountain. 

He navigated the dangerous terrain on trembling limbs. Every pockmark and dip in the sea-formed limestone threatened his steps, nipped at his fingers, and caught his toes. He refused to look back at his starting point, not until he was on level ground.

Once his aching feet felt the safe, spongy grass of the foothill, he looked back at the cave. It stared down at him, dour and foreboding in the gray rock of the tabletop mountain. 

He recognized it immediately. 

With a wavering moan, he fainted.

*** 

It was some time before a car appeared. A couple of hikers intending to ascend the mountain spotted him crumpled on the ground. They stopped to gather him into the backseat and drove to the nearest clinic.

When the young man revived, the doctor asked him for his name. He gave it, then asked if he was definitely where he suspected. 

They confirmed his suspicion. 

The young man had no clue how he’d gotten into Diarmuid and Grainne’s cave.

*** 

The doctor called his parents. The distraught couple and their eldest son tore through every red light and stop sign across the country in under three hours. It gave the Gardaí enough time to interrogate the young man.

They searched his pockets but found nothing. Not a wallet, not a bus ticket, not even a pound. 

How did he climb up to the cave? He did not know. 

What was he doing up there? He did not know. 

Was he with anyone? He did not know. 

Only his parents could confirm who he was and where he lived. And they were more than keen to divulge their suspicions on how their youngest turned up in County Sligo. 

It all began with that girl. Annie or Anna, or whatever her name was. She was a loose woman. No parents. Went where she pleased. Wore her long red hair down to her waist where it could float in the breeze as she walked past impressionable men. 

Their son had taken a liking to her, started dating her in secret, defied the Fourth Commandment. Necked with her in parks, in cinemas, and even in his bedroom. One of the neighbors spotted them in the park, practically tangled in each other’s limbs while they rolled on the grass. And the girl was on top. 

It was she who spirited him away these past two weeks, they were sure of it. Led him away from comfort and safety and up to the highest cave in all of Ireland. 

But when asked about his girlfriend, the young man couldn’t remember her. No prodding or secondhand information could jog his memory. 

His parents apologized profusely for the bother. They all piled into the small car and made the long, quiet trip back to Dublin. His parents took turns berating him. God help them, how they feared he’d met his end at the IRA’s rifles. All the votives lit at the Mass said in his honor. His poor granny praying until her voice crackled and broke. 

Barely a word made sense to the young man. He languished in the tortuous fog of half-sleep, fogging patches on the cold window he used for a pillow. 

The day after their prodigal son returned, his parents summoned a priest. The older man and the young man had a good, long talk. They spoke about honoring parents, the tragedy of fallen women, and how close the devil was to claiming his soul. 

Then they spoke about the young man’s future. Tradition had already decided for him, but the conversation put the heart crossways in him. He accepted the path laid out for him. There would be no more moneymaking schemes, no more amateur stage shows, no more chasing girls. 

Come the end of summer, the young man would enter the seminary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Catholic theology, “Honor thy father and mother” is the Fourth Commandment. In other theologies, it’s listed as the fifth.


	2. One Step Into Eternity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ted and Dougal attend a function where an event replays itself, and Ted is tempted to alter the outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter was inspired by the original ending of _Going To America_ as shown in _Father Ted: The Complete Scripts._ This is by no means making light of suicide or suicidal attempts, but I thought the original ending could be explored in a different way.

_It’s Still Great Being A Priest! ‘99_

The banner practically screamed the sentiment in glaring white letters on a royal blue background. Off to the sides, silver balloons bobbed in the cologne-tainted wakes of priests gliding back and forth. Decked in sexless black garb with white dog collars, they all laughed and chatted and milled about, living the banner’s lie.

It was nothing but a muted gray world to Father Ted Crilly.

He stood alone at one end of the refreshments table, tapping a gammy airpot lever. Hypnotized by the _ssst-click_ of the device’s bellows, he slowly refilled his paper cup with hot tea. He saw the liquid, saw it rising to the rim, felt its heat pool across his digits. But it all barely registered in his mind.

Since entering the function that morning, he had retreated into his inner thoughts. He had been living in his head quite a bit this past year, like a bored pensioner watching the same film at the second-hand cinema for days on end.

The film in his mind began with Father Kevin, moments away from hurling himself over a ledge. It cut to Ted and his curate, Father Dougal McGuire, playing snakes and ladders with the weeping priest. Then the second act catalyst, Father Buzz Cagney, strolling into the parochial house.

Cagney. Slicker than pan grease. Teeth decked in snowy caps. Thimble-shallow.

But Ted liked shallow. Loved it. Shallow meant glitz and money. Women with bosoms and bottoms stretching diaphanous fabric. Men richer than God driving cars faster than the devil. And Ted was one plane ride away from that life.

Impressed with Ted’s care of Kevin, Buzz had invited him to work in Los Angeles. The satellite parish in a multi-site church would have been a step up from a secluded island parish. Several steps up. An entire staircase leading up and away from the storm-beaten hellhole that was Craggy Island.

All the suffering, praying, and gnashing of teeth had paid off. The rewards of his finished penance were within reach. Glamorous parishioners, churches with heaven-scraping ceilings, call-in radio shows, book deals, a late model parish vehicle that started at any temperature. His heaven on Earth.

Somehow, the others in the parochial house got the impression they were coming along. Ted should have hardened his heart, should have told them the truth. But when he saw puppy dog-eyed Dougal, their pleading housekeeper, Mrs. Doyle, and their aged charge, Father Jack Hackett...

But how would moving to America have been any different from his tragically short stint in Dublin? Wasn’t that how it went in the Church? Here in one parish for a decade, off to another?

He lied to them about going to America. And he nearly stranded them at the airport.

But at the last minute, Father Buzz told him about easing tensions among the gangs through sports. Self-preservation won over materialistic lust. Ted got out of his first class seat, rejoined his housemates in the terminal, and walked back into his life of quiet desperation. Trapped on Craggy Island forever.

Forever and ever and ever and ever.

A week later, word of his near-escape reached his superior, Bishop Len Brennan.

Ted had to hand it to Father Buzz. That son of a bitch had made the move sound official. The phone call cementing their plans left out one crucial step: getting Brennan’s approval.

It had taken the bishop a year to follow through on his threat, but he was visiting Craggy Island tomorrow—and he was set on delivering the dressing down of a lifetime. Ted wanted nothing more than to leave...

“Ted, you got a moment?”

Ted became distantly aware of the real world again. His hand hovered over the airpot lever. Below the pour spout sat a paper cup. Tea rippled against the rim as an errant drop broke the penny brown liquid.

Voices converged in a dinful choir. He thought he had heard... No, his memories rarely repeated themselves this soon, nor did they edit themselves, not even during his most fervent episodes of wishful thinking.

A sea of priests gathered by the open window. Just like last year.

“He’s gonna jump! Again!”

Something far off in the back of Ted’s mind broke. A little imp flitted out of its dark cell and started babbling. It never commanded, only suggested—made dark jabs, mused about what-ifs, meditated on purpose and futility. This time it whispered about impulses. Dreadful, irrevocable acts. The kind that make the mind scream in horror as the damage unfolds, and its host is delivered into sweet, painless oblivion.

This time, Ted wanted the damage.

Stepping away from the table, he forgot all about the airpot, its strangely comforting hiss, and the paper cup. Another droplet fell from the spout and shattered the surface of the cooling liquid.

He pushed aside all the warm bodies, with their happiness and purposes and lives ahead of them, and reached the window sill.

He climbed outside.

Standing on the ledge in the same spot as last year was Father Kevin. Ted never found out his last name. Not that it mattered now. Time had been just as mean to the other priest, leaving him white curls and joyless webs around the pale eyes.

Kevin turned to face Ted. The sorrowful eyes glimmered, then flashed hot and angry. The wind made his knees buckle.

“Don’t you dare, Ted. Not this time.”

Ted held out a hand.

Then he said, “Move up a bit.”

***

Furrowing his brow in intense concentration, Father Dougal McGuire topped his plate with another Jammy Dodger. It was difficult choosing which sweets and breads to try, so he picked them all. In short order, his plate hosted a mountain of oatcakes, gur cakes, shortbreads, potato-apple cakes, Yellowman, Jaffa cakes, and custard creams. Whoever thought of this spread was a genius. Surely Ted would like something.

Grinning, he turned to ask his mentor at the other end of the table. Not a trace of him.

He must have gone off to talk to other priests. Ted was always talking—well, he used to always talk. But at a function like this, he’d have no shortage of people to talk to. He’d go on about movies, books, and what a gobshite Len Brennan was.

Dougal corrected himself. What a gobshite _Bishop_ Brennan was. He had to be on his very best behavior. Everyone in the parochial house had to be. Ted had done something wrong this past year. Dougal couldn’t recall what it was, it was bad enough that Brennan was very sore about it. But this and that and a lot of other Church business took up the bishop’s time. Only now was he able to visit Craggy Island.

That was enough to ruin Ted’s week. A lot of things were ruining Ted’s week. His life, even, at least according to Ted. After he decided they weren’t going to America, he’d lived in a cloud. He stopped reading his favorite books. He didn’t pay attention to the television very much. Dougal would prod him for conversation, and Ted would mumble back a few words, but that was it.

Sometimes it seemed to Dougal that he was talking to himself. Ted didn’t even come up with adventures anymore. It was like he had gone off somewhere after all, and he didn’t want anyone to follow.

Gosh, Ted barely refused Mrs. Doyle’s many cups of tea anymore. He would thank her, set the cup down, and let it cool down while he stared off into space. Kind of like that mad Matty Hislop fellow would do.

Dougal wondered if maybe Ted had joined that crowd and he forgot to tell everyone. It would explain a lot. Though Dougal couldn’t figure out why Ted would want to stick his hands on hot plates. Or roll around in cow manure. Or strip down to his underpants and lie in the mud while rain lashed at him. Not that Ted was doing those things, but it was probably only a matter of time.

Maybe a giant plate of colorful sweets would be the thing to break Ted’s foul mood. It worked for Dougal. How could anyone turn down such an offer?

The steady crowd noise grew. Some of it sounded worried. He heard Father Kevin’s name, then Ted’s.

He spun around. The crowd had grown bigger around the window. Heads bobbed up and down. Some arms flailed upward. Kevin’s and Ted’s names were spoken again, louder, more panicked.

Holding the plate close to his chest so nothing spilled, Dougal made his way toward the crowd.

***

Ted flicked his tongue out, catching it on his dry, cracked bottom lip. A breeze raked across his hair, blowing gray strands into his bleary eyes.

This was it. Finally it.

One step into eternity. Everything would be gone the moment he hit pavement. Gone, his dreams for endless adoration and riches. Gone, the regrets of never taking smarter chances. Gone, the memories of a wasted life scarred by poor choices.

He would be free. God forgive him, he would be free.

Ted stared back at Kevin. Confusion replaced the grim determination on the younger priest's face. Ted would have laughed if he been more collected. A complete reversal. The comforter joining the distressed.

“It _is_ pointless,” Ted said to him. “An utterly useless waste of time.”

Ted lifted a foot and brought it closer to the edge. Kevin shuddered.

“I’m done if you are,” Ted added. “I’m done anyway, even if you’re not.”

He angled forward, spilling weight into his foot. Just this one little motion and the momentum would carry him into whatever awaited him beyond this hopeless world. His gut lurched. He sought for a happy memory, something to hold on to during his final moments.

“ _Ted!_ ”

Ted cried out and pinwheeled his arms. Kevin flung out an arm and pinned him against the chest. With a gulp, Ted bumped up against the brick wall. His heels scraped violently against the surface.

Ted blinked through his wind-roughed bangs. The buildings and roads still stood below him. He still had a heartbeat. Still had breath. Kevin trembled beside him with his restraining arm sending tremors through Ted’s rib cage.

“Ted!”

He followed the voice and saw, to his horror, Dougal sticking his head out the window.

“Ted! You want a biscuit?”

***

Ted sure looked surprised, Dougal thought. In fact, he seemed almost horrified, like he had seen a monster pop out of nowhere. Maybe it was because he realized he was standing on a ledge outside the building. Kind of like that time he stopped an airplane from going down by climbing onto the wheel. Gosh, that was heroic, taping up that one part that was going to kill them all. Ted had quite the fright afterwards. Dougal hoped Ted wouldn’t be paralyzed and they’d have to cut off part of the ledge to take him home. How would they fit it in the car?

He carefully brought out the plate of sweets in case Ted didn’t understand. Ted’s eyes seemed hazy and distant. He looked from Dougal, to the plate, then down to the street. Then he looked back at Dougal, his mouth trembling. Ah, there it was, the love for sweets. Gosh, sometimes Dougal himself wanted to weep over the simple beauty of a chocolate digestive.

“Yes, Dougal,” he said softly. “I’d... I’d love a biscuit.”

Dougal didn’t understand all the fuss after Ted and Kevin came back inside. Now that he noticed, it was a bit stuffy in the room with all those priests. He would have gone out on the ledge for some fresh air, too. But at least now Ted and Kevin were both inside and they could enjoy some sweets.

“Great work, Father McGuire!” said a rotund, bald priest. He clapped Dougal hard on the back.

Dougal grinned, tucking his chin tight against his clerical collar. “Ah, it’s nothing. What did I do?”

Other priests patted his back and gave him praise. For what, he couldn’t figure out. Balancing a plate of sweets was a great feat, considering the grand volume of his bounty. Maybe that was it. In any case, it was time to share the rewards. He handed Kevin a Yellowman and Ted a Jammy Dodger.

“Go on, lads!” Dougal said as he plucked a tart off the plate. “What are we here for? Let’s eat!”

Kevin sobbed as he took a bite. Chomping down on his tart, Dougal could not have agreed more.

***

Ted stared at his curate. Dougal, with his wide blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and crumb-speckled grin. Pure, unspoiled innocence. Only moments ago about to witness his death.

The conference room returned to normal. A laugh there, a joke here. Lives going on as if two of them hadn’t tried to end themselves.

He bit into the jammy biscuit and listened to the soft _pak_ as the shortbread cracked under his teeth. The gluey raspberry pocket stretched out until it broke away from his bitten sample, then curled back as if in pain.

He chewed. He swallowed. He winced as the food scraped his raw throat.

It tasted like sand.


	3. Marching Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new mission could have Ted confronting more than just pagans.

Brushing aside his gray bangs, Ted stared at his reflection in the mirror. The vision was like seeing a neighbor who got uglier with every encounter. From the bruise-hued bags and creases around his eyes to his hooked nose, he loathed every part of his face.

Proper sleep would eliminate the bags. A Beverly Hills surgeon would have sliced everything else.

From now until they lowered him into a cold grave, his aging body would suffocate in vestments. But at least Dougal...

The door rattled with a series of loud bangs. Ted jumped, knocking a knee against the sink. He yelled something unfitting for a priest, then crumpled down to massage the aching joint.

"Ted! Are you on the toilet?" Dougal yelled from the other side.

"Dougal! What did we say about going on like that when I'm in here? What if I'd been shaving?"

"Sorry, Ted! It's just that Mrs. Doyle's wondering after you. She doesn't want breakfast getting cold."

Ted winced at the idea of trying one of their housekeeper's culinary experiments. Last week’s black pudding omelet, while ambitious, left his gut churning for the whole day.

"I'll be down in a minute, Dougal."

"All right, Ted!"

Dougal was sitting at the table when Ted hobbled in. The younger priest smiled shyly, his hands folded on an empty placement. On the other side of the room, Father Jack Hackett slumped in his armchair, dead to the world and smelling of whiskey. Ted envied him.

Mrs. Doyle was scraping a congealed mass off a serving plate. She paused in mid-stab to offer Ted a crinkly grin. He returned it, trying not to judge the pile of food on the trolley. He wondered if they could convince Jack to have some bread with his next drink.

"Good morning, Father Crilly!" Mrs. Doyle chirped. "I know a visit from Bishop Brennan can lower the spirits, so I cooked up a breakfast to lift them up!" She chuckled at her own joke.

Ted pulled out a chair and plopped down. "Thank you, Mrs. Doyle. I could do with some cheering up."

Dougal regarded him with wide eyes. "Why? What's wrong, Ted?"

Ted loured at him. "Bishop Brennan is coming over, remember?"

"Ah, yeah. What does Len want?"

"Dougal, how many times must I tell you not to call the bishop Len?"

"Why? That's his name, isn't it?"

"No—I mean, yes. But we don't call him that. We call him Bishop Brennan or Your Grace."

Dougal nodded. "Ah. Right, so. Funny how we can't call bishops by their first names, or even nicknames. Maybe Len—Bishop Brennan would be in a better mood if we had a funny nickname for him."

"I have a few names for him," Ted muttered.

Mrs. Doyle served them with the flare of a five-star hotel server. A full fry of eggs, sausages, and rashers gleamed on their plates, accompanied by brown bread and porridge with cream. It was a breakfast fit for a hiker, not a priest about to endure a one-sided screaming match. Perhaps Mrs. Doyle had imagined Ted sprinting for his life once the bishop had worked himself up into a lather.

Ted appreciated the effort, but his nerves wouldn't allow him to eat more than the porridge and bread. Dougal happily took Ted's plate while the other priest paced the room and indulged in a smoke.

A thin trail of smoke curled from a cigarette. It bounced across Ted’s face like a coy temptress, but the nicotine rush couldn’t calm him this time. He looked around for distractions. Something to calm his nerves...

Furniture. The old furniture that Mrs. Doyle burned before they left for the airport. The new furniture that generous parishioners gifted. Well, new-ish. Some of the secondhand (even thirdhand) goods looked suspiciously familiar to their old ones.

Ted considered checking Jack's armchair for teeth marks on the front left leg. As he bent down, the doorbell sounded. Startled for the second time that morning, he bit his cigarette.

"Hell's bells!" he spat.

"I'll be getting that, then." Mrs. Doyle scurried off into the hall.

Dougal gave Ted a hopeful grin from his new spot on the ottoman. "Good luck, Ted."

"Luck. Right."

Ted put out the damaged cigarette in the ashtray. Upon the sound of footsteps returning to the living room, he mouthed an oath and turned to face his fate.

Mrs. Doyle returned and pivoted on a heel, bowing toward the doorway in one smooth motion. Bishop Len Brennan soundlessly glided in, icy blue eyes immediately trained on Ted. His black ferraiolo swept around his sides, the edges curling around his ankles as he stopped in front of his target. The year had withered his looks, giving him the charm of a mangy stray dog.

Ted folded his hands and nodded in greeting, trying on a humble smile. "Hello, Your Grace."

Brennan lifted his chin, unblinking eyes boring into Ted's. "Don’t ‘hello’ me, Crilly. I don't want to be here any more than you want me to be, so let's get this over with."

"Right. So, ah, have a seat—?"

"No, I won't be sitting down for this." Brennan began pacing the room. "Because as soon as I'm done chewing you up and spitting you out, I will be walking out that door and to the car!"

He jabbed a finger into Ted's chest, making the priest bump back into the table. Ted stifled a whimper.

"What in God's name were you thinking, Crilly? The idea of you moving to a new parish without my say! The idea of a priest—a priest!—having more clout than a bishop! _Your_ bishop!"

"Y-yes, Your Gra—"

The bishop's mouth twisted into a savage line. "You are brash, you are insolent, and you are conniving. Oh, ho, kicking me up the arse was one thing, but I never expected you to be so dense as to leave your parish without my permission!"

Ted's stomach flipped.

"And you know..." The bishop shuffled closer, finger still poking into Ted's chest. "You know just... how... addle-brained you are, Crilly? Do you want to guess?"

Ted licked his lips. "N-no..."

Brennan made a low, shaky laugh in the back of his throat. His ugly, mocking smile took its time forming the next few words.

"You never confirmed that there was a Father Buzz Cagney."

The back of Ted’s head felt as though it were crumbling. "I... but... I talked to him."

Brennan stepped back, glaring at Ted as if it would make him combust.

"Talked to him. Talked to him! Crilly, I can talk to you and you could claim to be Elvis!" Brennan stormed over to Dougal on the ottoman. "I could talk to this dry shite and he could claim to be Flann O'Brien!"

"Oh, no, I'm Dougal."

"Silence!" Brennan screamed at the top of Dougal’s head. He stormed back, his dagger-straight finger aimed at Ted's heart. "We spent weeks researching all the parishes in the Los Angeles area. Not one, not a single parish had a Father Cagney. And not only did you disregard the steps to request a transfer—not that I'd ever grant you one—but you couldn't bother to pick up the phone and call the parish he claimed to work for."

He leaned in to Ted. The priest averted his eyes. In his periphery, Ted spotted Mrs. Doyle by his chair, frantically buffing a pair of shoes. The same ones he had scraped on the ledge. Brennan glowered at the housekeeper for a second before resuming his attack.

"You would have been taken for a ride," Brennan growled. "And for all the misery and heart medications you've put me through, I would not have stopped it."

Words had dried up in Ted's mouth. All he could do was nod.

Brennan stepped back, head bowed for a moment as he took in a few cleansing breaths. He was no less furious when he glared back up at Ted, but the yelling had at least stopped.

"I hadn't been looking forward to this visit at all. Not because I have any sympathy for you, but because I've had other matters to attend to. More important matters than making sure that the rejects from Gilligan's Island keep their noses clean."

"We've got tissues," Dougal said. "Do you need one, Len?"

"Dougal, please. I'm sorry, Bishop—"

Brennan exhaled sharply. As the sound stretched out, it roughened, bordering on a growl. He raised a hand as if preparing to chop at Ted.

"Enough," said the bishop, and he lowered his hand. "You can make up for your transgression."

Ted blinked. He must have misheard. Surely this was the part when Brennan gave him the name of his next parish. Most likely one without indoor plumbing and shops that sold expired tinned meat.

"It appears that the western part of your little paradise has survived erosion after all," said Brennan. "Instead of allowing any part of Craggy Island to sink into the ocean piece by piece, the Lord has spared this one rock. It’s settled a couple of miles out in the ocean. It's now a home for a group of pagans."

"Well, He does work in mysterious ways. With the island, I mean, not the pagans." Ted's brain was still catching up. He was still half-expecting Brennan to roll out the globe and point out a remote Pacific Island.

"These upstarts have the idea to resurrect the old ways." Brennan smiled wryly. "And they took a college student along with them."

"Kidnapping?" Ted asked, horrified.

"No. She went willingly. Apparently, her studies about Celtic gods got in her head and she ran off with the gang." Brennan pulled an envelope out of a pocket in his cassock. "The girl left a letter for her parents. This is a copy. The names and city will be of some importance to you, I think."

Ted took the envelope with its back facing up. The top had a corner of rumpled paper where the letter opener didn’t cut all the way. He slipped out the letter, flicked it open, and read aloud:

_Dear Mam and Da,_

_This letter will find you upset beyond all words, but I have good reason to run off._

_I know you've heard talk from my friends at college. I've heard it too. My studies didn't ruin my mind. They confirmed everything I’ve believed in since I was little._

_My new friends and I are going to live off the western coast for a while. It's a tiny island close to Craggy Island. We'll make some plans and see what happens. Don't worry, we're not a new IRA. We believe in peace and love, and we want to share that with the world._

_Please understand. I don't mean to hurt you both. I've got to find myself now, but it won't be at college._

_I'll stay safe, as always. Please, you do the same. This isn't goodbye forever. Once I have my life in order, I’ll be coming home._

_Love,  
Your Sersh_

"Wow," Dougal said, "she's petty."

Ted looked at the front of the envelope. The return address had the name Saoirse Bodkin and a location of student housing at a Dublin university. The recipients were Darragh and Orla Bodkin of Wexford.

A sickening, hot-cold sensation trickled down the back of Ted's neck. It couldn’t be...

Brennan gestured at the envelope. "Keep that. Show it to the girl once you find her. There's another paper in there with the parents' number. Call them once you get the girl."

"R-right. But, Your Grace, why me? This really sounds like a job for the Gardaí."

"No, it isn't,“ Brennan said with a humorless smile. ”You're the closest to the island. Since you're in much need of absolution, you're the best person to go out there and talk some sense into those neosavages. At the very least convince the girl to go back to her family."

"Right, so."

"Are we clear on what you need to do, Crilly?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"You start tomorrow. I don't care how you get to that rock. Swim, take a boat, fly a helicopter. Just get over there."

"Yes, Bishop Brennan."

The bishop rubbed his temples, wrinkling his nose as if he had tenderized a sore spot. "And now, thank the saints, I am done."

He whirled around and made for the door. "I'm leaving Satan's gallstone, and I don't plan on returning soon. Oh, and, Crilly?"

Ted looked up, holding the envelope to his chest.

Brennan cut his eyes at the priest from over his shoulder. "The next phone call I get from your house better be about your success with the pagans—or an invitation to your funeral."

With those words hanging in the air, Bishop Brennan threw open the door and yanked it shut behind him.

Dougal waved at the door. "Bye, Len."

***

Ted relished the silence that followed. It was over. Nothing more than the usual bile and hatred from the bishop. What had he been worried about? God, what a relief. His shoulders felt the weight of a thousand tons fly away...

"Gosh, Ted, how are we going to get to that island?"

... and immediately slam back down.

"I don't know, Dougal." Ted sat back down at the table. "We don't have the money to hire a boat."

"You think the ferry could take us there?"

"No, Dougal, they have to follow a schedule and a route."

"What about Sargeant Hodgins and his helicopter?"

Ted pulled out his pack of cigarettes. "You don't remember Dougal?"

Dougal knitted his brows. "Remember what?"

"The whole business with the helicopter," Ted said. He paused, eyebrows raised. "You honestly don't remember?"

Dougal shook his head.

"It was on Great Lashing Day. When we remembered the storm from 1720, the one that submerged Craggy Island for two weeks?“

Dougal began to open his mouth.

“No, we weren't around then, none of us were. But we had a parade on the beach. The McHale boys made those giant water guns? And they fired them at the helicopter?”

Dougal tilted his head.

“And the stream went inside the helicopter and hit the pilot in the face? You don't remember the big splash the helicopter made when it hit the water?”

Dougal shook his tilted head.

“There was a big rush to get the pilot and Sargeant Hodgins out of the water! And then the sand caved in and the massive sinkhole appeared!”

Dougal bit his lip.

“Father Jack's wheelchair was swept in! Mrs. Doyle dived in to get them both! How could you not remember?”

Dougal’s confounded expression was bordering on frustration.

Ted scratched his chin. “You were trying to get the wrapper off your Woppa Bar."

Dougal's eyes brightened. "Ah! So I guess asking about the helicopter is out of the question?"

"Yes, it is, Dougal," Ted said as he bit his lip.

Mrs. Doyle raised her head from her intense work. The shoe in her lap appeared to be shinier than before. "Land’s sake, Father, how did you get these marks on your shoes?"

Ted suddenly became very interested in the design on the cigarette pack. "I... don't remember."

"Ah, well. I'll have them as good as new in no time." Her wrinkled face grinned up at him. "Now that the bishop's eaten the head off you, don't you feel better?"

"I guess so. I'm starting to worry about getting to that island now." And the young woman at the end of that journey. Though he wasn’t about to admit that part out loud.

Mrs. Doyle scoffed. "Pagans. Tscha. What's gotten into their heads that they think they need all those gods when just the one is fine enough? You know, Father, it brings to mind that cross that was hanging on the wall, just up on the landing."

"Which one was that?"

"Saint Brigid’s cross. The one woven from rushes? I don't even remember where it came from, but it was hanging up there for the longest time."

"Why did you take it down? Saint Brigid is an important figure in our lives."

"It wasn’t out of any malice, Father. I was wiping the walls from the time Father McGuire and Father Lennon made that mess around the house."

"Ah, yeah. The mashed potato gun," Ted said, eyeing Dougal.

Dougal shrugged, wriggling on the ottoman. "Nobody got hurt."

“I just never got around to hanging it back up,” Mrs. Doyle said. “But that cross did remind me of the time Mrs. Dineen was telling me about her granddaughter. Young Pauline was doing a school report on saints, and apparently, there’s talk that Saint Brigid is based on a pagan goddess of the same name. Imagine that!”

"Fascinating. If you could hang it back up, that would be grand." Ted studied the health warning on the cigarette pack— _Might be bad for you._ —but cared little about its meaning. "There's got to be some way to that island."

Mrs. Doyle got to her feet. "I know just the thing to power the old thinking cap, Father. A nice, steaming cup of tea."

"Oh, no, I'm fine."

"You sure you wouldn't want one, Father? I got some peppermint from the store the other day."

"My stomach isn't fit for it right now."

"Peppermint is just the thing for the collywobbles, Father. Now, go on, I'll make you a cup."

Jack snored himself awake. He slapped at the armrests, shooting out stuffing from the holes.

"Drink!"

"Yes, Father," Ted sighed, "a drink does sound good right about now."

"Okay, so, I'll put on the kettle then." Pleased with her mission briefing, Mrs. Doyle marched through the kitchen door.

Dougal pulled up the chair beside Ted. "Say, what happened to that Kevin fella? The one that was up on the ledge with you?"

Ted swallowed. "Oh, he's... gone to visit a cousin in America. Thought maybe a change of scenery would do him some good."

"Where in America?"

"New York. His cousin moved there a few years ago. She's a dancer in a troupe." Ted's mouth contorted into a grimace. "Ah, yes, a cousin in showbiz. What a help that would have been."

“Help for what, Ted?”

“Nothing.”

The second time on the ledge had broken something else in Kevin. As soon as he was done forcing down the sweet Dougal gave him, he made a desperate call to his cousin. Ted, not quite knowing what to do with himself, accompanied him. He heard parts of the cousin's side, mostly due to the yelling. She was determined to fly to Ireland the next day and drag Kevin back on the red-eye. If the Church didn't like it, she spat, they could “blow themselves.”

Kevin sobbed in relief and asked for forgiveness. The cousin only wanted him to go with her. It would do him a world of good to talk to a friend who had helped her through her own crisis.

_"Raphael is a treasure. He's wise and compassionate, nothing like the priests we've had to deal with. He's a true man of God, and he said he's willing to help. Please come here. Just don't stay where I can't help you."_

Ted wished he had such a person in his life.

Like twin lights, Dougal's blue eyes broke through the darkness of Ted’s thoughts. The younger man sat across from him, shoulders slightly hunched and hands folded on the placemat. He looked for all the world like a child wriggling in self-control over a secret he wanted to spill.

That impish smile. Brimming with all the love and admiration a human could have for another. Love and admiration Ted felt he didn’t deserve.

How long would the others have sat at the airport, wondering if they had missed the flight or how to call him in America? When would they have concluded that he left them? No, not left. Abandoned.

The stories they would have told his replacement. Every one of them justified in their vitriol. _Oh, yes, Father Crilly. The bastard. We took care of him for years. We loved him despite the whole Lourdes thing. You know, I never once thought that the money was just resting in his account..._

But with the truth of Father Buzz Cagney... God, what had really awaited Ted at the end of that flight?

Dougal chuckled, bringing Ted once more to the present. Ted tapped the end of the pack against his palm.

"What are you grinning about, Dougal?"

"This is the most you've talked in ages, Ted."

"Oh... is it?"

"Yeah. Ever since we decided we weren’t going to America, you've been quiet a lot."

Ted let the pack rest in his hand. "Well, it was going to be a big, life-changing event, you know?"

Dougal shrugged, a small grin still playing around his face. "Yeah. But like you said, we belong on Craggy Island, and I can't think of a better place to be. But now it's just like old times! You're talking again, Brennan came over and was mean to us, and now we're going on another adventure!"

"Leading a stray flock back to the pasture of Christ. If we could walk on water like He did, we’d have this problem halfway solved."

"Ah, c'mon, Ted, we'll figure it out. We always do. How bad can it be? We'll just go see what these people are on about, run some ribbons around that tall pole, and watch them set fire to that giant wooden man out in the field."

Ted gave him a withering stare. "Dougal, you're thinking about _The Wicker Man_."

"Oh, right. Gosh, Christopher Lee was brilliant in that one, wasn't he?"

"He was." Ted finally realized that his pack felt very light. He opened the end and groaned at his discovery. "Damn. I'm out of fags."

He rose from his chair and made his way to the door. Mrs. Doyle walked through the kitchen door, carrying a buffer, and sat back down with Ted’s shoes.

"Where're you off to, Ted?" asked Dougal.

"I'm going to the O’Leary’s shop. I think I'll walk there. Give my head some time to clear. Don't wait for me, Mrs. Doyle. I'll make my own tea when I get back."

Mrs. Doyle looked up from plugging the buffer into a wall socket. "Oh, Father, don't bother yourself like that! I'll put the kettle on again when you get back."

"Really, Mrs. Doyle, it isn't a big—"

"It would be no problem at all, Father. Now, you go on and enjoy your walk."

"All right, then. Thank you, Mrs. Doyle."

***

The walk took longer than normal, which suited Ted fine. By the time he finished, his head would be clear enough for an entire cloud of nicotine bliss.

Along the way, he greeted parishioners out on their own walks, got clonked in the head by a youngster's football, and outran a ram. The beast was guarding a flock that had gone into heat out of season. Ted had heard the winsome bleating upon his approach but failed to take full notice until he saw the ram charging at him.

He arrived at the former cliffs. Monster surf fanned salty mist along the gray rock. Charcoal waters stretched out into the vast Atlantic. The somber vista was cloaked in dense mist, punctuated by a lone, green-topped rock. Somewhere on that land was a new age tribe and a ghost from his past.

Ted sighed. He wished he were protesting another art film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great Lashing Day was something I made up regarding the 1720 storm mentioned in _The Craggy Island Parish Magazines._


	4. The Raft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ted and Dougal make their way to the island... with predictable results.

"Wake up, Dougal, we've got to get going!"

"Augh, Ted!" Dougal waved a hand through the air and ducked under the fluffy comfort of his duvet.

"Dougal, I won’t stand here and argue with you."

The younger priest growled and threw off the duvet. Ted gave him an admonishing look before going over to the wardrobe. Dougal forced himself into a sitting position and ran his fingers through his messy hair.

"God, Ted, it's got to be some kind of awful hour right now. What is it? Four o'clock? Five?"

"Eight o'clock," Ted said, half-hidden by the wardrobe door.

"God!" Dougal threw his legs over the side of the bed. "I can't believe Bishop Brennan would be so cruel!"

"Actually, Dougal, I figured that if we went out around this time, we might get back before sundown." Ted walked back to his bed carrying the day's clothes. "Remember Sean O'Malley?"

"The daredevil! Didn't he try to swim around the island in nothing but a Speedo?"

"During the coldest month, no less," Ted said. "He got about halfway through the trip before rabid dolphins carried him off. They found him a few weeks later beachcombing the French Riviera. He'd sworn off daredevilry and started a business there."

"What of?"

"Personal diving tours. The tourist would hang off his neck and he'd take them down into the water. He was strong enough to carry the heaviest of riders." Ted held up a pair of socks, perhaps checking for their intensity of blackness. "He claims he got the 'superpower' from dolphin bites."

“Wow! Brilliant!”

"But that's far from the point," said Ted. "I was thinking about Sean's swim around the island. People timed how long it took him to reach certain landmarks along the coasts. It took him about an hour to get close to the clochán."

"The clo-what?"

"The clochán." Ted made a rounded gesture with his hands. "It was that stone beehive-shaped thing that was on the western side of the island."

"Ah, yeah. Jack used to play hide-and-seek there when I'd take him out for his walk."

"Is that so? I didn't think Father Jack had much of a playful nature."

"Ah, he does!" Dougal said. "He'd get out of his wheelchair and run, and I'd look for him, and he'd jump out of that beehive thing and punch me, then kick dirt at me and run off again. We had a laugh."

Ted's dark brows lowered. "Right. Anyway, by my estimation, it should take us that long to row from the dock over to where the clochán was. Maybe another hour to reach the island from that point."

Something important crossed Dougal's mind. "Do you think we'll be back in time for _Blockbusters_?"

Ted wrinkled his nose and nodded his head from side to side. "Let's try surviving this trip first."

Dougal padded over to the door in his race car slippers. "You think the pagans were bitten by dolphins, Ted? Maybe that's why they've gone mad and want to live on an island in the worst part of the ocean?"

"Dougal, they're living on the island because... because they're unfulfilled, and they need a purpose in their lives."

"Does that explain us, then, Ted?"

"Go wash up, Dougal."

***

By the time Dougal returned, Ted was putting on his wellies. They hardly matched the old priest outfit, but Ted had worn both together on several occasions. If they had a more varied wardrobe, they would have dressed up like proper adventurers... though Dougal didn't quite know what an adventurer would wear on this occasion. A button-up shirt and blue jeans seemed to make more sense. But they were priests, and they would talk to pagans, so maybe the usual black clothes did make more sense.

Maybe. Not really. Catholicism, paganism... the whole religion thing was mad. To him, there was little difference between believing in lots of gods and believing in only one god and a bunch of winged sidekicks.

It did give them a reason to have fun—and big breakfasts, which Mrs. Doyle happily provided. It was a full fry with a side of black pudding. Ted's appetite had improved since yesterday and he devoured every last morsel. He ate like a horse when he was happy and comfortable. That meant exciting things were happening, and his brain would kick into that "affirmative action" mode, just like with the airplane.

They said goodbye to Mrs. Doyle, avoided a cane to the heads from Father Jack, and set out. With that old determined glint in his pale blue eyes, Ted looked every bit like a man on a mission. Which was correct, but Dougal liked the sound of that. Ted was once more the leader he was born to be. And with his faithful sidekick, Dougal thought proudly, there was no way they could fail.

Dougal carried a waterproof knapsack filled with vittles. Ted carried a duffel bag containing an inflatable raft and collapsible oars. By good fortune, Ted had found the raft and oars set in the O'Leary's shop while he was buying cigarettes.

"I couldn't believe my luck," Ted said as he rolled out the rubber craft. He peeled off a _USED ONCE_ sticker. "It's like someone's trying to help us out."

Dougal peeled off a _AS IS, NO RETURNS_ sticker. "Who'd be helping us, Ted?"

"God. God is helping us."

"Oh, right, yeah."

"I caught John and Mary off guard," Ted continued, smiling. "Seems they were doing a bit of renovation around the old shop. They went a little crazy on the counter, though. There were all these dents from hammers. Poor John, he must have been really going at it. His hand was cramping up something awful. The way he was holding it, you'd have thought it was broken."

"It'll be good to see the shop once it's renovated, right, Ted?"

"It could do with a facelift. Hand me the pump, Dougal. I'll start inflating. You check for leaks."

"But, Ted, we're not out in the ocean yet."

"I mean air leaks. Listen for air coming out of the raft."

They worked a short distance from the dock. Ted said that they should be ready to launch within the half-hour. Dougal asked about the launching part of the journey. Once Ted explained they weren't going in a rocket, things made sense again. After all, who'd ever heard of an inflatable rocket? Besides, neither of them knew if rockets ran on diesel or petrol.

Ted worked the pump like he was on an exercising machine. Dougal watched, momentarily forgetting his own task. Energy filled Ted. This was the Ted that Dougal had missed. He seemed reborn, and all it took was Len being a bully to him.

"Dougal, quit grinning like an eejit. Are you listening for leaks?"

"Oh, right! Ehm, I'll just... ah, Ted?"

Ted pressed down on the pump handle and took a breath. "Yes, Dougal?"

"There's a big old black sticker on the outside here."

Ted shuffled on his knees over to where Dougal pointed. He peered at the large black square on the side.

"It's a patch," Ted said. "Ooh, I don't like that."

"How so?"

"That means the raft was damaged at some point. Ah, well, we've come this far. Is it making any noise?"

"Why would a patch make noise?"

"I meant, is there any air coming out of it?"

"Patches aren't filled with air, Ted!"

"Put your ear near it and listen, Dougal!"

"Oh, fine." Dougal did so, wondering what Ted was on about this time. "No, Ted, I don't hear a thing."

"Grand. Let's finish this up and we'll set off."

On the way to the water, they passed Tom sitting in his usual spot on the rock wall. He regarded the two priests with a blank stare, his single eyebrow beetling.

"Hello dere, Fathers. Where're ya off to?" he growled.

"Hello, Tom," said Ted. "We're going to that new island off the former west coast."

"Westfellin?" The word sounded shrill in Tom's voice.

"What? It's got a name?" asked Dougal.

"The kids gave it one. They were throwing rocks at it." Tom made a throwing gesture. "One of them said the rocks all came flying back at them."

Ted chuckled. "Probably a wave crashing against the cliffs that carried them back."

"No, Fathers. The kids claim there's something weird about that island. It's always covered in a mist, besides."

"We're facing the Atlantic in one of the coldest, cloudiest parts of the world. It's a wonder Craggy Island itself isn't always in a mist," said Ted.

"What sends you out there?" asked Tom.

"Bishop Brennan. He wants us to talk to some pagans living out there. See if we can convince them to leave. They’ve got a runaway college girl with them." Ted nodded to Dougal. "Let me head in first, Dougal. I'll steady the raft, you can climb in once I've got it."

"Be careful out there, Fathers," Tom called after them.

"Not to worry, Tom! We'll have those heathens singing hymns before the day is over!"

Ted bent over the raft and gripped the sides as best he could. Dougal piled the bags into the middle, then slipped in, taking some water in with him. He cupped his hands and bailed it out while Ted struggled to get in.

Once safely in, Ted took the oars. Dougal was on bag guarding duty. At least that's what he assumed it was, sitting with the bags between his legs. They wouldn't be getting wet on his watch.

More than an hour passed. Ted's calculations could be off sometimes, but as far as Dougal was concerned, they were making excellent time. The experience was rather interesting as well. Feeling the waves roll under his backside through the vinyl was funny. Maybe there were dolphins swimming under them.

"Ted, I think I see the island!"

The land was still quite a ways from them. The grassy rock poked out from a veil of mist. Dougal could make out a ring of sand around the tall plateau, and what appeared to be a yellow glow on the top.

"I think they've got a fire going on, Ted."

"Probably dancing round it in the nude," Ted mumbled.

"They'd dance in the nip, Ted?"

Ted rolled his eyes. "Some bollocks about being close to nature or whatever."

"But they're already close to nature." Dougal stuck a hand in the freezing water to emphasize his point. His fingers brushed against something sticking off the raft. "We're pretty close to it right now, and we don't have to take off our clothes for it."

"Some of the best fun you can have with your clothes on." Ted nodded, looking rather pleased with himself. "Yes, it just makes more sense to be civilized. Ha. Trying to revive their hedonistic culture out here, the storm magnet of Ireland. I have a feeling this will be one of our better missions, Dougal. Once those pagans see the error of their ways, we'll have them on the ferry back to the mainland. Or maybe we'll invite them for a sermon at our church. Wouldn't be bad for publicity. Yes, an hour-long program on the BBC. ' _Finding Faith Once More_ , the story of how Fathers Crilly and McGuire bring runaway college girl back into the arms of God'..."

Ted got that shiny, faraway look in his eyes. He got that way when he started thinking about being on the television or getting money. Dougal squirmed in his seat and smiled until his face hurt, almost as much as his hand still hanging in the water. God, it was wonderful to have his best friend back.

Ted gave the oars a mighty stroke. The smile rested in his eyes where it belonged. "Yes, Dougal, this will be a trip to remember."

***

" _Faster, Dougal! Bail! Baaaiiilll!_ "

Somewhere along the way, the black patch on the side of the raft peeled off. Ted had a sneaking suspicion this was all Dougal’s fault. The simpleton had kept his hand in the water after making that comment about being close to nature. He had dislodged the patch, Ted was sure of it. Of course he would have sat on the side with the fecking patch!

Water spilled into the raft. Both Dougal's cupped hands flew in and out, spilling more water than they held. He might as well have prayed the water away. Everything below his chest was drenched. A wave charged over them. The ocean was intent on swallowing them.

Fighting back a gasp, Ted gave the oars another stroke, growling against the blazing pain in his shoulders. The effort propelled them closer to the island and dipped the raft into the water. Dougal yelled and tried to bail faster.

"It's too late, Dougal! Get out! Swim to shore!"

Panic muddled Ted’s senses. Everything played out like a slideshow. His body twisted into the water. He paddled like a dog. Water flooded between his skin and the clothes now weighing him down. Saltwater crashed into his eyes and up his nose. Dougal yelled about sandwiches.

When his kicking legs found the sand, Ted almost cried out in relief. He scrambled out of the water, arms flailing, and with the briefest of thanks to his god, he fell forward onto the gray sand.


	5. Westfellin Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ted and Dougal confront the pagans, and Ted's worst fear is confirmed…

"Ted! Get up, Ted!"

Red and blue splotches pulsed in the blackness behind Ted’s eyes. He forced his weakened eyelids to open. Smeary brownish and cream spots hovered over him, slowly sharpening back into the shape of Dougal.

"Ted, are you okay?"

"Oh, God Almighty, Dougal. You wouldn't believe the dream I had." Ted carefully pulled himself up into a sitting position, cradling a throbbing temple. "Bishop Brennan sent us to some island even more godforsaken than ours, and we had to convince pagans..."

His vision cleared. Rain clouds blanketed the sky. Gray sand stretched out on either side of them, darkened by the rolling murky seawater. Ahead of them, to his dismay, was the mist-shrouded shape of Craggy Island.

"Oh, feckin' hell."

A wind picked up, lashing the chill from Ted’s damp clothes across his body. He shivered and crossed his arms for what little good that did. His hair, glued to his face and neck in thin forks, was already hardening. Dougal sat beside him, patting him hard on the back. The younger priest looked as though he had been roughed up in a washing machine—and asked for another ride. The ocean was still ripe on them both. It burned Ted’s nostrils.

Ted’s nerves bounced. He pulled out his cigarettes from a damp pocket. The box, crushed like his spirits, bloomed with decimated cigarettes. Clusters of leaves sprinkled about the inside like nicotine confetti.

"Christ Almighty." Ted slapped the pack against the sand.

"Cheer up, Ted. We've still got food." Dougal opened the knapsack between his crossed legs and took out a crinkly triangle. "Ah, look! Mrs. Doyle made us some crisp sandwiches. And here're some ham and jam sandwiches, too."

"Dougal, this really isn’t the time..."

"Come on now, we’re on a mission. We’ve got to keep our energy up."

"Fine. I'll have a ham one," Ted said glumly.

As he unwrapped the sandwich, he noticed something off.

"Dougal, I wanted a ham sandwich, not a jam one."

"No, Ted. Ham and jam sandwiches."

Ted blinked at him. "Ham _and_ jam?"

Dougal looked incredulous. "Ted, I didn't misspeak. I said 'ham and jam sandwiches'."

"I thought you meant... never mind."

Ted peeled off the top slice of bread and wiped it across the strawberry jam. The new open-faced ham sandwich wasn't too bad, even with the tinge of strawberry. The jam-topped slice made a decent treat, though he wasn't in much of a mood to enjoy it.

Dougal sprang to his feet after four sandwiches, ready and raring to burn off his extra energy. Ted led their tiny outfit, hands bunched inside the water-slicked pockets of his anorak. They walked along the gray beach, studying the cliffs for any means of climbing up. The craggy edges offered a few footholds, but Ted didn't trust them. The cliffs seemed barely taller than the parochial house, but it was still a long climb as far as Ted was concerned.

"What if you did that thing with your hands there, where you cup them together and give someone a lift up?" asked Dougal.

"We'd still have to climb the rest of the way up." Ted let out an exhausted breath at the thought. "We should have packed some climbing gear."

They rounded the island, coming to face the endless expanse of the Atlantic. Home was so near, yet the sight of the ocean made Ted feel like they were on the other side of the world. He called up to the cliffs. His voice dampened when it hit the misty barrier.

"Hello!" he yelled. "I know you're up there!"

"Hey, you!" Dougal called. "Have you got any climbing gear we can borrow?"

Only the scrubbing waves behind them replied.

"I suppose we should be glad there's a beach here at all," Ted muttered. "We could still be floating around this giant rock."

"Now why would we do that, Ted?"

They rounded another bend, returning to their landing spot. Craggy Island taunted them, bringing up visions of tea and Stephen King novels for Ted. Just as he was about to pray for an immediate solution, Dougal piped up.

"Ted, look!"

Ted turned to see Dougal pointing at a length of carved steps leading up the cliffside.

"Wha—" Ted's jaw dropped. "How... how did we miss that?"

"I didn't see it the first time." Dougal looked no more astonished than usual. "Well, it's better than messing with climbing gear. I wouldn't know how to whittle anyway."

Ted decided against asking Dougal to clarify and followed him toward the steps.

Dougal reached the top and gave a little hop as Ted finished his own climb. They stood in silence, scanning the shrouded grassy plain ahead of them. Dougal peered into the misty obstruction, squinting as though his eyes ached.

"What is it, Dougal?"

"Your beehive thing, er... the clo-hhhan."

"Do you see it?"

"No."

Ted grumbled and started walking out into the mist. "They’ve got to be here somewhere. Hello! _Hello!_ "

He had walked only a few steps when he felt a presence behind him. He spun around. Only the mist hung there. With some horror, he realized Dougal wasn't nearby.

"Dougal!"

No answer.

Ted ran back. The mist and ground stretched on, showing no end. He stopped suddenly, arms swinging from the sudden motion, and he scanned around again.

"Dougal!"

Oh, God. What if he had fallen down the stairs? Or off the cliff? Ted bolted forward, spurred on by the horror of Dougal's form splayed on the beach below, desperately crying out for help.

"Ted! Where'd you go, Ted?"

"Oh, thank God!" Ted spun around, trying to determine the direction of his curate's voice. "Dougal! Keep talking!"

"Ted, I can't see anything!"

"I’ll find you by following your voice! Just keep talking!" Ted rushed forward.

"What should I talk about, Ted?"

"Anything!"

"I can't think of anything!"

Ted bit his tongue. Then he got a brainwave.

"Dougal, letter and word association!"

"I don't know who they are, Ted. What are they a firm for?"

"No, Dougal, a game! Let's play a game to keep you talking!"

"Ted, this is hardly the time to play a game! Honestly, now, I shouldn't have to be the grownup around here!"

"God Almighty and Mother Mary... just yell out a letter and I'll give a word that starts with that letter!" He began roaming again, his left ear trained outward.

"Fine! Ehm... A!"

"Aardvark!"

"B!"

"Bear!"

"C!"

"Cat!"

"D!"

"Donegal!"

"Ted, Donegal's a place!"

"I know that!"

"You've broken the rules, Ted! You started out with animals and now you're going into places! We're gonna have to start all over again!"

"There were no rules! This was just— _aaagghh!_ "

Something bumped into Ted's back. He stumbled forward, flailing his arms. He came to a stop and bent over like a limp rag over the sink. A sudden burn coursed through his thighs and calves.

"Ted, there you are!"

Ted lifted himself and looked over his shoulder. Grasping the knapsack like a security blanket, Dougal stared back at him through a pocket of mist.

"Thank the saints!" Ted ran back...

... and kept running.

Dougal looked him up and down, confusion all over his features.

"Ted, how're you running in place like that?"

Ted stopped and looked down at his feet. Mist obscured everything below his knees. When he looked back up, Dougal was gliding backwards into the mist.

"Dougal!"

"Why am I moving, Ted?" Dougal yelled in panic.

"I don't know! Run back to me, Dougal, run back!"

Ted could only see the top half of Dougal out of the mist, but the other man was definitely moving. Or was attempting to move. Ted still ran in place. The harder he pounded the ground, the more sluggish his entire body felt.

He staggered to a stop. Bent over with his hands on his knees, he gulped the air as if he had been drowning. He didn't know what kind of devilry was going on, but he was going to get his curate back.

He looked up—and yelled at the sight of Dougal standing right in front of him.

"Ted! I blinked and you were right there!"

Ted threw his hands out and clutched his perpetually flabbergasted curate, the only bit of sanity in this madness.

"We're getting out of here," he said. "Forget the pagans, forget the college girl!"

"But what'll we tell Len?"

"We'll say they all drowned in a botched baptism in the ocean. You can't save them all!"

Laughter rose up and surrounded them. It came from deep in the mist, far away and yet so close. Dougal grabbed Ted in a shivering one-armed hug. Ted grabbed Dougal’s head, pressing hard enough for droplets to weep out from the hair between his fingers.

The laughter eased into a soft humming before falling silent. Ted whipped his head around, trying to spot the threat before it overtook them. Then, in front of them, a spark of light bloomed in the mist. It was small like a candle flame before it elongated and split in five directions. It filled out, taking on the form of a human.

Dougal shuddered and pressed his head against Ted's neck. Ted steeled himself with a deep breath.

"All right!" he called to the figure. "We've played your games, you've had your fun. Stop whatever black magic you’ve got and let us go!"

The mist broke away in ribbons. The light faded, revealing its source. A young woman stood before them. Red hair showered down to her waist in loose waves, curling at the ends. A glow seemed to emanate from within her, casting gold and green flecks through her hair. A heavy cloak decorated in red and gold squares hung over her slight shoulders.

Her golden eyes stared back at Ted. Locked him in. Despite their brightness, there was sorrow in those eyes. Ted could tell it had been living there for quite some time; a kind of grief incapable of healing, brimming behind a shield of false stoniness.

For a moment, his frustration ebbed. The priestly instinct to listen and counsel kicked in. Maybe there was more to this trip than proselytizing a few stray souls.

At last, the woman spoke.

"Welcome, priests."

***

Clutching Ted's shoulders, Dougal stared at the red-haired woman. She had come out of the mist like a ghost, except she was all in color and maybe touchable, like he could reach out and put his fingers on her hair. Except Dougal didn't want to touch her hair or any part of her.

"How did you know what we are?" he demanded.

"Dougal." Ted pointed at his own neck. "The collars."

"Oh, right, yeah." Dougal resumed his bulldog glare at the woman. Now was the part where the heroes got tough on their enemies, just like in the movies. "Now wh-what's the meaning of all this? What do you want?"

"We already know what they want," Ted sighed.

Dougal nodded, trying to catch one of the random thoughts flying through his mind. There was something about pagans, a wooden man about to be set on fire, a police sergeant sent to the island, and a missing girl who was in on the whole thing, and Christopher Lee. Then those Hammer Films about Dracula. Did pagans drink blood? No, no, get back on track… the pagans, the girl...

"Right! Hand over the girl and we'll give you the ransom money!"

Ted said something under his breath that would have been worth six Hail Marys.

The woman laughed. It was a pretty laugh, full of light and birdsong and summer breezes. Her eyes were bright like Christmas gold tinsel. She was tiny like Mrs. Doyle, but she possessed a mettle that warned people not to mess with her.

"You are odd," she said, "but entertaining. This is the hardest I've laughed in a while. I needed to smile."

Ted shivered as he perked up his shoulders. He was bracing himself for a priestly talk. Getting tough, as he should.

"Well, you'll find no more bigger smile than that of your Lord and Savior when you return to his loving embrace."

The woman's mirth disappeared. "I was expecting this. Very well. Speak."

Ted nodded, muttering "Right, right" under his breath. He nodded again, more sharply, then leaned in to Dougal.

"Dougal, I didn't bring a Bible," he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"That's all right, Ted. I didn't think we'd have time to read on this trip."

"No, to read passages to the pagans!"

"I didn't think we'd be doing a storytime thing."

"To convert them back to the faith!" Ted ran a palm down the side of his own face. "To lead them back to the god they abandoned!" he continued through gritted teeth.

"Right! Abandoned. I know a couple of passages."

"You do?" Ted gasped. "God bless your erratic mind. I knew it was good for something!"

Encouraged by this bit of positivity, Dougal scanned his memory. He was sure there was a passage appropriate for this situation.

"Ehm... 'He abandoned Yahweh, God of his ancestors; he did not follow the way of Yahweh.'"

"What? Dougal, no! Do another one!"

"Right. Okay. 'Samuel said, 'Why consult me, when Yahweh has abandoned you and has become your enemy?'"

"Dougal!"

"Ah, Ted, what’s she going to care if it's all out of context? Sometimes even I don't know what these passages mean!"

The woman laughed and threw her head back. Ted worked his teeth along his bottom lip.

"Look," Ted said to her, "honestly, right now, I couldn't give a toss if you wanted to spend the rest of your days on this rock. Our main concern is a college student you tricked into leaving with you."

The woman shook her head. "The girl did not need any convincing to join us, but we did not ask her to follow. She expressed a wish for a different life, and we welcomed her. She is free to leave if she wants. But right now, she's happier here. It's the happiest she's been in her entire life." She leveled her gaze at Ted. "Just as you were before you had that collar snapped around your neck."

Dougal felt Ted startle. The other priest recovered quickly, resuming his steely glare.

"She has family. They're worried about her."

"There is no need for them to worry," the woman said. "Their daughter is safe with us. She has food, clothing, water, an audience who will listen, and guides who will help transform her concerns into the gifts she has desired her entire life. We are doing far more for her than your church has ever done."

Then her expression softened. "But you yourselves are in need of the same comforts. The elements haven't been kind to you today. If you will cease your rambling of your vengeful god, I'll invite you to sit with us."

Dougal tightened his grip on Ted's anorak. "No, Ted, they might put us in the wooden man!"

"This is our chance to get through to them!" Ted hissed back. He nodded at the woman. "We accept!"

"But first..." The woman held her fingertips to her heart. "I am Aine, goddess of summer, wealth, and sovereignty. I am a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann, people of the goddess Danu, and among the last peoples to settle the land you call Ireland."

"Ah, doing a bit of acting, I see," Ted said. "Getting into the role. Fine, we'll play along."

"And I know your names as well," Aine continued. "You are Dougal McGuire, and you..." Her small chest rose with a sad sigh as her gaze shifted. "Ted... Ted Crilly..."

"How did she know, Ted?" Dougal whispered. "She knew we were priests from our collars. Are our names on them, too?"

"I... I..." Ted shook his head. He gulped. His breath came out in a rasp. "Bloody hell, maybe she read a newspaper with our names in it. She got a copy of _The Craggy Island Examiner_. I don’t know!"

Aine composed herself, stretching her neck and closing her eyes. "But you need comforts," she said quickly. "And I will give them to you."

She swept her arms to the sides, kind of like how Dougal would when he was imagining himself as a bird taking off. The mist behind her dissipated. A light bloomed from out of the whiteness, revealing itself to be a lively fire pit. Two wedge tents made from thick fabric faced the fire pit; opposite of them stood the clochán.

Two men sat by the fire. They both wore tunics and baggy trousers with some kind of wrap decorated with crude blue and teal checkers. Dougal had some respect for these pagans. They really knew how to get into character.

Even if they were scary characters. He didn’t like the larger of the two men, a middle-aged fellow with blond hair draped over his shoulders. Celtic triangle tattoos trailed down his muscly arms. A rather ugly white mark went from his forehead and curved under his left eye. He was carving something onto a wooden tablet with a fancy knife. Dougal hoped that was all the knife was used for.

The other fellow was smaller; a dwarf, actually. He had red hair like Aine, and a beard so wide and thick that it covered his compact chest. He sat on an overturned bucket with his back to the flame. He was restringing a harp, his short fingers moving so quickly that the strings seemed to appear out of nothing.

Dougal glanced over at Ted. The other man’s body felt rigid. But this was the moment before Ted’s courage returned. He always went through cycles, it seemed, between bravery and terror. Dougal leaned in as if he could collect the growing determination from his friend. If Ted could face the unknown, so could he.

Aine gestured in the direction of the muscly man. "This is Ogma, warrior and poet, and the creator of ogham, the lettering in which your ancestral language was first written."

Ogma stopped carving on the wood tablet to glare up at the priests. His eyes glowed bright like blue Christmas lights. Dougal angled his head to see what Ogma had been carving. Long lines covered the board vertically, with a mess of shorter ones branching out like stripped branches.

"Ah, Ted, he spells worse than you do when you're drunk."

Ogma bristled. "This isn't the lettering of your invaders, mortal."

Aine waved him off. "Be calm, Ogma. They have much to learn, and we must be patient."

Ogma lifted a wiry eyebrow at her, shrugged, and returned to his carving.

Aine then gestured to the small fellow. "This is my brother, Fer Í, poet and musician."

"'Fairy'?" Dougal repeated.

" _Fehr Eee_ ," the man said in a voice bigger and bolder than his form. "Some call me Fer Fi. But call me Fer… if you _prefer_." He broke out into laughter as Aine rolled her eyes.

Ted scoffed. "Another poet? What, in case the other one can’t come up with rhymes?"

"It helps with duets,” Fer said, adding a chuckle. "But we were the original multitaskers, mortal. We have many interests and skills, some of them related, others diametrically opposed. Flidais sees over cattle while representing fertility, and Manannán mac Lir is the god of the sea and the guardian of the afterlife."

Ted rocked on his heels. "Ah, yes, I guess while you’re drowning sailors, you may as well give them the express lane to the hereafter."

Fer threw his head back and laughed, revealing crooked teeth. His eyes glittered like green foil. "This one gets it!"

"Don't encourage him," Aine said.

"Be calm, Aine," Fer said, grinning as he used the same tone she had used with Ogma. "You wanted to have them over. Let them have their fun for a bit. We knew this wouldn't be easy."

"What wouldn’t be easy?" Ted whispered to Dougal. "What the hell is he on about?"

Dougal helplessly shrugged in response.

Aine closed her eyes, kind of like in prayer, except Dougal thought she wouldn't be praying to any god. At least the Christian god he knew about. Maybe she'd pray to herself? How did that work with pagan gods? _Were_ these gods? If so, then why wouldn’t the Christian god pop up and hang around with humans?

Composing herself again, Aine gave Ted a tired smile. "Now that you've met us, perhaps you'd like to meet the very one you came for."

Ted suddenly balked. "Oh, well, ah... are you sure there aren’t more of you hanging around? When I was told there was a group of pagans I thought there would be, well, dozens of you."

"Only Ogma and Fer chose to travel with me this far," Aine said. "Follow me."

As she led them to the clochán, Dougal held Ted’s sleeve. The older man was practically shivering despite the blazing fire nearby.

"Ted, what’s wrong? I thought we needed to get this student back to her home."

"We do, but..." Ted licked his lips. "No, no, it... it can’t be her. What are the chances? There are probably dozens of girls with her exact name. My neighborhood had six Brigids, for feck’s sake. There aren’t very many original parents these days... or back when she was born..."

They stopped in front of the clochán. The thin stones, piled here and there and tightly joined, made a rather comfortable looking dwelling. A square opening in the center came up to Aine’s hip. Dougal sensed something moving in the darkness inside.

"Saoirse, you've got guests!" Aine called.

The something inside the clochán moved again. A hand slipped out and grabbed the edge of the opening. The rest of the body came out, hunched over knees, and with a soft grunt of discomfort, unfolded and stood upright.

There was no way this was a goddess. She was too plain. She was about Aine’s height and kind of scrawny. Her copper hair poofed out in a curly bob that didn't suit her heart-shaped face. Her pale lips barely concealed buck teeth. It was a rather underwhelming reveal, Dougal thought. At least she made up for it with fashion sense, if the green dress and wrap were any indication.

Aine chuckled. "You're very popular today, young one. At this rate, you'll be worshiped as a goddess!"

The woman folded her arms under her rib cage in a protective hug. She looked from Dougal to Ted. The moment her eyes fell on the older priest, her eyes made an imperceptible shift from shyness to disgust.

"She's not much of a goddess, is she, Ted? Though I wonder what she's a goddess of. Maybe youth and death, rats and singing, or some other mad combination." Dougal turned to him. "Ted, what's got you all scared now?"

Ted’s bottom lip shuddered as he struggled to speak. The blood dropped from his face.

"Oh, Christ," he whispered. "It _is_ her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the passages Dougal was quoting, if you're curious:
> 
> 2 Kings 21:22 "He abandoned Yahweh, God of his ancestors; he did not follow the way of Yahweh." (New Jerusalem Bible)
> 
> 1 Samuel 28:16 "Samuel said, 'Why consult me, when Yahweh has abandoned you and has become your enemy?" (NJB


	6. The Lourdes Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Convincing the college student to return home will take a bit more effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casual sexism ahead. If you're familiar with the series, this is par for the course. You can't write a character like Ted without him having outmoded ideas on the "proper" life goals and actions of Catholic girls.

In all the years he had spent being reminded of his biggest transgression, Ted never thought he would have to face the person most affected by it.

He knew her right on sight. Time had not disguised Saoirse Martha Bodkin. She was never a beautiful child. Her gangly limbs seemed magnetized to all fragile objects, and her frizzy hair won every battle against a brush. At age twelve, she reached her adult height, making her the tallest girl in the congregation. Her limbs finally fit and she outgrew the clumsiness, but her buck teeth and freckles still drew snide comments.

Now, here she stood, an ugly duckling that had grown into… no, a swan was too generous. More like she had grown into an eider. The green eyes that once beheld him with reverence now blazed with the condemnation of particular judgment.

_God, take me now,_ he thought.

Ted made a weak, watery laugh. Perhaps he could use Dougal as a distraction. A distraction for… what, exactly? The only thing he wanted right now was for Saoirse to leave the island without an argument. And without any mention of the Lourdes thing whatsoever. He turned to Dougal, only to find air.

"Dougal!"

Ted whipped around. Dougal stood by Fer, one hand reared back and poised to throw an apple into the fire. The dwarf was tossing apples into the fire and catching them as they bounced back like tennis balls.

"What, Ted? I'm just gonna do a trick like this fella here."

"Don't do anything those pagans are doing! Get back here, stand by me, and don't move until I tell you to!"

Dougal slipped the apple from hand to hand, eyes cast low. He rejoined Ted's side, looking up at Saoirse briefly before studying his apple.

Ted steadied himself with a breath. Saoirse glanced at Dougal with some interest. Her fingers wove in between each other and slid back and forth. Her nervous tic.

"M-Miss Bodkin…" Ted licked his dry lips. He had almost called her by her first name. He had to avoid any kind of clue that they had known each other. Ten years had passed. Perhaps she had forgotten him. Maybe that disgusted glare was for his appearance. Yes, that was it. A rough ride in the ocean would certainly dishevel one's normally dashing looks.

"Miss Bodkin," he began again, "we've been sent here to... to collect you... and take you back home."

The golden reflection of the fire danced across unblinking green eyes.

"Your parents are very worried," Ted continued. "They want to see you back home, safe and sound. That's why Father McGuire and I are here. We ask that you return to the Lord's safety and—"

"Oh, Ted!"

"Goddammit, Dougal, I was speak—"

"The letter!"

Dougal swung the knapsack around to his front. He dug past several sandwiches and brought out a white rectangle swaddled in several layers of cling film.

"Here you go!" He handed the envelope to Ted. "You almost forgot it on the table this morning. So while you were out having a smoke after breakfast, I got it and wrapped it up!"

Ted mumbled a thanks for the lad's foresight. His fingers scratched along the surface, seeking a torn end of the film. He tugged on a corner, only to have the entire side peel up. He bunched it down and looked for another edge.

"Why is it wrapped up like this?" he demanded.

"To protect it from the water. Duh."

"Don't talk to me like that!"

Ted poked a thumb through the material and got stuck. He twisted the envelope. It spun like a cap refusing to catch onto bottle neck threads. All the while, Saoirse's stare grew increasingly judgmental.

With a tired sigh, Ogma rose from his spot by the fire, silently walked over, and yanked the envelope off Ted's thumb. Ted yelped at the pain, and again when Ogma made a deep, clean slice through the film with his knife.

"Th-thank you." Ted weakly took the envelope.

Ogma snorted and returned to his spot.

Ted assumed a serious expression as he unpeeled the wrapping and handed the envelope to Saoirse. She took it, knitting her faint auburn eyebrows.

"See? We're not making this up. Your parents want you to come back home, and we're here to help." Ted ended the statement with a fatherly smile.

Saoirse nodded slowly, turning the envelope over in her hands. After a moment, she handed the envelope back to Ted. She weaved her fingers in front of herself and looked between the two priests.

"I'm not going back," she said flatly.

With that, she turned and slowly crawled back into the clochán.

Dougal shrugged and nudged Ted's shoulder. "Ah, well, we tried."

"I didn't come out all this way just so I could be told no," Ted growled. "We're getting her to go back!"

"No luck, I see." Aine glided up to them with a sly grin on her lips.

"The Lord's work is hardly ever easy," Ted told her. "We'll have her back in a pew by tomorrow afternoon!"

Aine glanced up at the sky. "You'll have a hard time convincing her to leave today at all. Sundown is approaching."

"Oh, flip, we'll miss tea!" Dougal said. "Maybe we can get back in time for nine o'clock tea."

"Dougal, we don't have a means to get back right now. The raft is destroyed, remember?"

"Then why're you going on about getting the girl home if we can't get back ourselves?"

"It's not a matter of actually getting home, it's a matter... we're trying to convince..."

"But if we can't convince the girl to actually go home, then what's stopping her from still living here? It's not like she can just get up and go—"

"Dougal?"

"Yes?"

"Go away for a bit."

Something in Ted's eyes must have convinced Dougal, because the younger priest chattered a stream of "right" and "fair enough" before striding off into the mist, juggling his single apple. Grumbling, Ted bunched up the cling film and shoved it into a pocket.

Aine laughed her summery birdsong laugh. She took a step forward, hips swinging.

Ted gripped the envelope, reminding himself of his mission while eyeing the godless temptation approaching him. No doubt she would lead him into a tent and ply him with food and drink, making him feel safe enough to strip out of his damp clothes. Then, when he least expected it, she'd leap through the tent opening and pin him on the ground. She'd weaken him with gentle caresses and forceful kisses. She'd coerce him to renounce his one true god, and, drunk on lust, he'd declare his devotion to the heathen ways. He was sure of it. Oh, she was a crafty one.

"You need warmth and food," Aine said. She gestured at a tent on the other side of the campsite.

He knew it! Oh, God save his soul and preserve his vows…

"Go in there and rest. You can take off your damp coat and boots and set them over the fire. I will come get you when we're ready to eat."

"Oh. Right. Thank you."

Ted stiffly walked over to the tent, holding the envelope over his crotch.

Inside the tent, Ted found a small pit in the middle, no deeper than the length of his leg from heel to knee. Small stones lined the interior in uneven bumps. A steady glow pulsed like a heartbeat under the logs. The little fire coughed up a short thread of smoke toward the opening in the ceiling.

Over the pit sat a wooden frame lashed together with twine. Ted tested it with his palm. It barely bowed under the gentle pressure. His palm came away toasty and with no trace of soot. At least none of his garments would tumble into the fire or get dirtier.

Two pallet beds draped with furs lay on the ground. What creatures the furs once belonged to, Ted couldn't tell. He claimed the pallet furthest from the pit. The arrangement would have been much like the bedroom back home—with Dougal on the left and Ted on the right—and Dougal would be warmer near the fire.

He shouldered off his jacket, sighing in relief as a weight seemed to float off into the ether. His wellies slurped and sucked as he pulled them off. His socks peeled off his feet like wobbly fruit leather. When he was finished, the wellies sat on their sides beside the pit, and the jacket and socks were draped over the frame.

Had he been more comfortable, he would have removed his shirt and trousers. The garments weren't too terribly wet, besides, and they gave him a sense of security. As he ran a finger along the inside of the clerical collar, he breathed deeply and savored the lull in the madness.

The tent flap opened, startling him. Dougal's grinning face peered in.

"Ah, there you are, Ted!"

"God, you frightened the life out of me!"

Dougal pushed the rest of the way past the tent flap, carrying the knapsack close to his chest. He spotted Ted's garments over the fire.

"Goodness, Ted, if you'd waited, I'd have given you some more sandwiches. There's no need to start roasting your clothes yet."

"I'm drying them out. You should do the same."

After Dougal set down the knapsack, Ted slipped the envelope back inside it. Dougal plopped down on the other pallet, pausing in surprise as the straw crunched under his weight.

"I've never slept on a bed like this before. It'll be like sleeping on a mattress filled with Coco Pops!" He grinned like a toddler and wriggled a bit more, creating more crunching.

Ted watched him with the amusement of an exhausted father. "Look at us now. Roughing it. I imagine this is how the first settlers of Craggy Island felt. It's not the first time I've had to deal with these conditions."

Dougal's eyes widened and he stopped wriggling. "You've been over here before? Why didn't you say so?"

Ted shook his head. "No, not these exact conditions. In my post-seminary days, I visited a St. Colm's friend who'd been assigned a parish off the west coast of Africa." He looked off into the distance. "Ah, yes, Escapardo Island. That miserable little rock. It was a day's swim from the Cape Verde islands. I know that because Father Thomas Jones tried escaping once while I was there. They sent him back to his parochial house the next day. Well, parochial hut. Well… more like several shacks glued together with tree sap and crushed up insects. Poor Thomas, sharing that abode with a curate dumber than rocks, an aged priest driven to drink, and a housekeeper who served endless streams of foamy, peanut-loaded Libyan tea. Thank God I don't have to deal with anything like that."

"Absolutely. We should count our blessings."

Once Dougal had wrestled out of his damp garments and was basking in the fire's warmth, Ted felt he could truly relax. Dougal possessed an uncanny, almost beatific calmness in most situations. (It was the only time Ted would consider using "beatific" and "Dougal" in the same sentence.) Regardless, Ted resolved to never get themselves into a situation like this again. The next time Bishop Brennan had an assignment, Ted would suggest Dick Byrne. Even if it meant lying through his teeth about what a fantastic priest Byrne was and how... oh, God, he couldn't finish that thought.

"So, that girl is the one, right?" Dougal asked. "The college girl we're looking to take back?"

"Yes. She is."

"You looked like you'd seen a ghost back there. What's wrong?"

"Well... I don't really want to talk about it, but... she's the one, Dougal."

Dougal's blank eyes roamed around the fire pit and he nodded slowly before staring at Ted. "Yeah. We're supposed to get her off the island."

"Not just that," Ted said. "I meant..." He gestured helplessly with one hand. "She's the child. The one with... the Lourdes thing..."

Dougal grinned impishly. "Oh, ho!"

"Quiet! I swear, the money was just resting in my account! It had been since day one, and she would have seen every penny for her trip." Ted ran his fingers through his bangs.

"Well, then, you just explain that to her. Then all will be forgiven," said Dougal.

"It's harder than that, Dougal."

"How's that, Ted?"

Ted wriggled his toes against the grass. He reached down to wipe off some loose blades. "Well, Dougal, you see… Miss Bodkin and I were friends. Well, of sorts. I always thought our bond was the traditional priest-parishioner dynamic. But she saw it from a mentor-mentee perspective. Kind of like you and me."

Dougal's jaw dropped. "So she thought she was a curate?"

"No, not exactly," Ted said slowly. "I have to go back a bit and explain how she came to think that way. It started with her freckles. Now you can't see them on her face so much now, but she had a lot of them, especially on her arms. Add to that her red hair and green eyes, and the fact she spoke a bit of Irish, and you had the exemplary Irish girl. The pride of her fiercely nationalistic parents. But that doesn't matter much to children. You know how cruel they can be."

"Oh, you're right there, Ted. Remember when the Hennessey boys chased Jack that one time?"

"Yes. I also remember him using your mashed potato gun on them the next day."

"Ha, yeah!"

"Anyway," Ted said. "Poor Saoirse. She had no pride in how she looked. She wanted to be blonde and tanned like the American women on the magazine covers. I heard how she'd lie out in the yard sunning herself until her skin turned pink. She'd be peeling like an orange days later. And then the arm rubbing."

Ted felt the echo of a pain in his heart. He touched his fingers to the spot.

"God, it was awful. I'd never seen a child hate themselves so much. She'd come in wearing long sleeves even on the hottest days so she could hide her arms. They were all red with scabby little hatch marks where she'd rubbed them raw."

Dougal's eyes widened in alarm and held his arms close to himself.

"Her parents tried everything to get her to stop." Ted nodded sharply, his mouth a determined, firm line. "It was up to me as the parish priest. So I wrote a sermon on how we're all God's paintings. It was a corker of a sermon, if I don't mind saying myself."

"How'd it go?" asked Dougal, his eyes glittering with excitement.

Ted raised both his hands and stared straight ahead. His mind flashed back…

***

_He stood in the pulpit, surrounded by eggshell white walls and stained glass apostles. The gilded tabernacle housed gourmet wafers. The Donatello-inspired Crucifix with glossy Holy Wounds watched over the nave. He could not have imagined a more gorgeous first parish._

_The congregation loved him. The women more so. His storm blue eyes and the white stripe in his black mane had earned him the nickname Father What-A-Waste. He could talk rugby with the menfolk. The kids thought he was cool. He loved all of those people in return, and every sermon was for each of them. But on this June day, this sermon was for a certain young girl and her parents._

_Nobody murmured in hushed conversation. Not a single eyeball strayed over a watch or a concealed novel. He really had them. He was the center of their world, an artist, a celebrity. This must have been what a film star felt when they accepted one of those Oscar prizes._

_"I ask you to not only love your neighbor, but yourself, especially as you are. God made his first children from the earth, and since then has painted His children with tones from the earth. We are His living canvases, and we should admire His artistic touches, from the color of our eyes to the shade of our hair and, yes, even the flicks of paint that make up our freckles. How do we describe our eyes and hair? Lakes on clear summer days, fields of wheat. Can we not see freckles as reminiscent of constellations? God made the stars in the sky, His home. Surely then, Heaven is also reflected in our freckles."_

_At that moment, one pair of green eyes lowered, made all the brighter from a fiery blush._

***

"Brilliant!" Dougal said, bringing Ted back to the present. "What did you mean by all that?"

Ted clenched his eyes shut.

"I was being poetic, Dougal. I was making a point on how our different appearances are expressions of God."

"Oh, right."

Ted opened his eyes, feeling a slight headache coming on. "Did you understand that then?"

"Ehm… no."

"Right. Anyway… after the service, Saoirse came up to me, head low, the lights above shining down on her hair and making a thin copper halo. She was tugging at her sleeves, trying to hide the redness around her wrists. Then she started doing that thing with her fingers—" He wove his together. "—like she always did when she was nervous. Bless her heart. She thanked me for the lovely sermon. And when she raised her head to meet my eyes…"

Ted turned to Dougal. The brightness and innocence in those eyes made his breath hitch.

"Right then and there, I understood what it meant to be a priest. A lifetime of sacrifices were all validated when she looked at me. Our whole vocation, it's not just delivering souls from damnation, it's also delivering souls from themselves. Saving them from their own ideas of worthlessness and ugliness. To help them accept the God-given right to love themselves."

Dougal nodded, his mouth stretching into a tight not-quite-smile. Ted knew his curate didn't quite understand, but he wasn't going to ask him to clarify. He wanted to relive that tiny epiphany of answering the call to priesthood rather than being forced into it.

"Well," he continued after the silence grew too heavy, "I hugged her and patted her on the head, and said she was welcome. Back in those days, a priest could still hug a child without it meaning anything else."

"Why can't they now, Ted?"

The wheels in Ted's own head came to a creaking stop when a Dougal-friendly answer failed to conjure itself. "It's complicated."

"Is it a bunch of canon laws, then?"

"Let's not concern ourselves with that right now." Ted wrapped his fingers around his chilled toes, grimacing at the slight burning sensation. "So the arm rubbing tapered down. By that winter, she had completely stopped. But apparently, she got the notion to become a priest. She wanted to follow in my footsteps. And she was determined. She participated in afterschool church activities, studied the Bible forwards and backwards. She even offered to help me in the sacristy! I had to ask the sisters to intervene."

"So the nuns helped you in the sacristy?"

"God, no! They just had to engage with Saoirse and…" Ted paused, realizing the slip he had been making during the conversation. "… Miss Bodkin… and reroute Miss Bodkin's career plans, so to speak. I thought if the girl spent more time with the nuns, she'd get tired of the whole 'ordained woman' thing. I was still wise to keep some distance. Not just for decorum's sake. The Church controversies were piling up even back then. Please don't ask what they are, we don't have the time."

"Fair enough."

"But everything came to a head when she wrote an essay in school about her future plans. She still wanted to become a priest. The nuns hadn't been successful. They couldn't convince her to join a nunnery. She didn't even want to get married. Think of it, a Catholic girl not wanting to get married or become a nun! Insanity!

"Her parents wanted me to talk some sense into her again. I tried. I explained how male priesthood was not only doctrine but divine law. Not even the Pope himself can change it if he wanted. You can't argue against what's right, but… I still felt awful, crushing her ambitions like that. All I could do was pat her on the shoulder—she was a little too old for the hugs and head pats by then—and I assured her that she could serve God and the Church in other ways.

"It only made things worse. She began spending time in the church garden, away from everyone else. She came up with stories of goddesses visiting the trees, talking to her about the ancient ways. She told her classmates about how the Church did more harm than good.

"After I dissuaded her from her… aspirations… she had confession with me only once. She went to my curate for that, but this one time, she did it so she could tell me something. Something she claimed someone had told her in the garden: that the Church turned vibrant young men into miserable old priests, just like me."

Ted instinctively felt for his cigarettes, then remembered how they were all ruined. His nerves jumped.

"Well. Some of the more… progressive, I guess you'd call them… parishioners said that it was only an active imagination paired with preadolescent defiance. But Miss Bodkin's family thought she was sick in the head. Therapy wasn't exactly popular back then. I mean, why go to a therapist when you had a priest? A priest could solve every problem. Except for Saoirse Bodkin. So her family sought another answer…"

Dougal leaned in. "Which was?"

Ted tasted lead as the word formed in his mouth.

"Lourdes. They would take her to Lourdes. They wanted her to experience the miracles, maybe see a vision of the Blessed Mother. If that happened, she'd go back to God. So they got in touch with a charity, the charity set up a fundraising event with us, and… well…"

"Ah, so." Dougal nodded, his eyes trailing away as the cogs spun in high gear. "The money was raised so Saoirse could go to Lourdes… then you stole it for your trip to Las Vegas… and that's how you wound up on Craggy Island!"

Ted glared at him. "No! Absolutely not!"

Dougal bunched his hands, shaking them as his lips thinned into an ecstatic smile. He looked ready to burst.

"Wow, wow, wow! I feel like Sherlock Holmes solving a grand mystery! All these years I was wondering how the money wound up in your account and where it came from, and now all the pieces are coming together—"

"Dougal, _would you let it go?_ "

Dougal winced, then glanced away from Ted. He ran his hands over the knapsack as if smoothing out the fabric. "Sorry, Ted."

Ted sighed, then chewed his bottom lip. "Right. Let's think of other things."

"You're right. We'll burn that bridge when we come to it."

"I thought I'd burned it years ago... But anyway, what were you doing outside? Seeing the sights and all that?"

"Ah, it's all boring here, except for the part when we got lost and were running in place. I didn't do any of that just now, but I did see a horse. I gave him my apple."

Ted blinked at him. "A horse? On this island?"

"There are plenty of horses on islands, Ted. The mainland's crawling with them."

"It's not that, it's... how did a horse get on this island?" Ted wondered out loud.

"I don't know. I didn't think to ask him. There wasn't a horse on the western part of Craggy Island, so he couldn't have fallen in with it." Dougal stopped rubbing the knapsack, his face bright with revelation. "Unless he swam over. Horses can swim, right?"

"Yes, but he'd have had a hell of a way to swim."

"Hey, how'd we get all our horses, Ted? They couldn't have flown over."

"Land bridges. The horses crossed them to different parts of Europe. In fact, that's how people got to other lands back in ancient times. A lot of those bridges are underwater now."

"Wow! Do you think this horse had to hold his breath for long?"

A moment passed. The fire spat and popped.

"You amaze me, Dougal, you know that?"

"Aw, thanks, Ted. You amaze me, too."

**Author's Note:**

> In Catholic theology, “Honor thy father and mother” is the Fourth Commandment. In other theologies, it’s listed as the fifth.


End file.
